Peter and Alicia
by JamiW
Summary: Post-ep for All Tapped Out, and moves forward past Tying the Knot. Advisory - this is most definitely an AP fic.


A/N: Post- All Tapped Out, with minor references to Tying the Knot

**Alicia POV**

* * *

"Peter, what are we doing?"

I let out a frustrated sigh as I sit back in the chair and wait for him to look up from his notes.

"Uh…" he begins with uncertainty as his eyes meet mine.

I think _he_ thinks I'm angry with him.

_Something new_, I thought humorlessly.

And I can't help but notice how tired he looks. How _old_.

When did that happen?

"You said we should coordinate functions," he continues. "So I'm trying to give you notice about these dates, and…"

"That's not what I mean," I interrupt. "I'm asking _why are we doing this_?"

I think he finally grasps that I'm going _there_.

And I am, because like Finn told me a couple of days ago in court, I seem to have finally awakened. Maybe it took me longer than it should, but then again, I don't think grief follows any kind of timeline, so the best I can say is that I feel alive again. I think it was the NSA wiretaps that did it. It sucked me into the thrill of battle. It made me feel like living when for a little while there, I wasn't sure if I wanted to anymore.

Anyway, so I'm ready to address the argument we had the other day, but I guess he still isn't sure where _there_ is going to take us, so he shrugs, looking completely nonplussed.

I keep staring at him in what I hope is a meaningful look and he finally breaks.

It's both empowering and slightly disturbing that I knew he would.

Break, I mean.

Give in to me.

Give me what I want, whether it's what I deserve or not.

"I'm doing as you asked," he says, sounding slightly beaten. "And yeah, so maybe I scheduled a few more spousal functions than I might have otherwise, but if that's the only way I get to see you…"

He trails off and I'm surprised. Not only by his honesty but by the act itself.

He scheduled more events in order to be around me, since the guidelines I set – in a not so pleasant manner, I might add – specified that we only see each other for professional purposes.

It's an uncharacteristically sentimental act.

"I know, but," I begin, but I stop when his eyes narrow slightly.

"But what?" he asks. "You didn't mean it?"

He comes around to the front of his desk and sits on the edge as he continues to regard me skeptically, and it's almost like I can physically see him shoring up his walls. Sliding his armor into place.

"Yes, you did," he finishes.

"No, I…okay, yes," I admit, and the reality of how I've treated him since Will died suddenly hits me full force.

I threw the past in his face.

_I lost my husband a long time ago…I'm still living it every day._

I cut him to the quick without so much as a second thought, knowing I was hurting him and not giving a damn because _I _was hurting.

_But not because of him this time,_ I remind myself. And yet I used him as a punching bag anyway.

And just because_ I_ just woke up doesn't mean the chaos I created while sleeping is miraculously put back into place.

I swallow, my gaze shifting down to the floor briefly, and then I meet his eyes again as I power through.

"At the time, I _did_ mean it. But Peter, you have to understand…"

"Stop," he interrupts.

He stands fully again, so I get to my feet. I feel like I need to explain myself, but I'm not sure where to start.

I mean, pushing him away was the act of a grieving woman. That doesn't mean that's how I want things to be. I was just…devastated, and confused, and…well, lost. Completely lost. And the more he tried to help, the more I resented him for it because I know he hated Will.

"Understand what?" he asks sharply. "That I hurt you so badly we can never recover? I mean, that's basically what you said, right? At the first sign of trouble, you're throwing the hookers in my face, so…"

This is turning ugly.

My first response is to fire back at him, to remind him what he said about Will – because yes he did care about me! – but I don't say anything because that doesn't really matter anymore, and this is not turning out how I thought it would.

But I guess it's me who brought us here.

I'm the one who said those hateful things.

And I mean, I _do_ love Peter. I never would've agreed to renew our vows if I didn't. Things were going along just fine between us as friendly, co-parenting individuals, so there was no need to up the stakes with rejuvenated statements of love.

But I did. We did.

And then this happened…_Will's death_, I force myself to think. And I reacted about as badly as humanly possible.

Of _course_ it hurt to lose him. It was a shock. A tragedy. A terrible, terrible loss.

But why didn't I run towards Peter instead of sending him away?

Why didn't I look to him for comfort?

I don't know, but I didn't. I curled up inside of myself, and I dodged him for as long as I could, and then when we were finally face to face, all hell broke loose.

And I know that day, with what he said, he was only trying to snap me out of my funk. I'd been in the bed for so long that my kids were freaking out, and surely at least one of them had called him to express their concern.

Because let's face it. How often do I miss appointments? Stand up clients? Lie in the bed for hours on end?

Never, not even when my father died.

"It was wrong for me to say that," I admit. "Peter, I'm sorry. I was…upset, and things spiraled out of control, and…"

"You wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it. If it weren't still on your mind," he states, and this time instead of sounding angry, he sounds dejected.

"I was lashing out," I explain. "I was hurting."

"And you wanted me to hurt, too," he says with a nod, and for a second, I think he gets it, but then he turns away from me and moves around behind his desk again. "But I can't do this. The back and forth, it's…"

He stops abruptly and then sits down and stares at nothing as silence falls over the room.

"It's too hard," he finishes quietly.

While I struggle to find the right response, he picks up his calendar again, and after a moment, he glances up, almost as if he's surprised I'm still in the room, and then he says, "I'll email you about these dates, and you can let me know which ones are convenient for you."

He caps off his statement by sitting back in his chair, turning it slightly away from me and propping his feet on the desk, but never once looking back in my direction.

I've been effectively dismissed.

Just like the other day when I told him about the NSA taps.

"_Thank you, Alicia_," he said to me, crisply and efficiently as if I were a staffer.

I'd been so stunned by the dismissal that I merely complied, turning and walking out the door without another word, but that was when I had the first inkling of how badly I screwed up.

Of course, even then, I never doubted that I'd be able to make things right. I would apologize and he would accept it and we'd go back to being how we were before.

But that's not what's happening, and now…now it's even worse because now I've _tried _to fix it, but it still isn't working, so…I don't know what comes next.

_I've lost him_, my mind supplies, and I feel this pain in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I continue to stand in his office as I quietly and consciously suck in air, waiting for the pain to subside, but it doesn't.

See, all these years, after everything that's happened, deep down I've always felt like Peter was still mine.

He was the one in the doghouse. He would come back to me if I let him. He would have sex with me when I let him. I was holding all the cards and we both knew it.

But now it's different.

Because with the renewal of our vows, we were finally back on even footing, with a clean slate.

And then I had to say what I said.

"_You are free to see and sleep with whomever you like_," I told him in that condescending way I seem to use on him a lot. And then I capped it off with a sharp and inflexible _get out of my house_.

_Nothing ambiguous about that_, I point out to myself.

And then days went by where I didn't speak with him at all. In fact, I basically pushed the entire conversation from my mind. That time period immediately following Will's funeral all feels like a dream anyway.

But as I mentioned, it doesn't feel like that anymore. I've regained my purpose and determination, and even though I still have those little moments of nauseating unease at the mention of Will's name, I'm okay.

_But things with Peter definitely aren't. _

Serves me right for taking his love for granted.

I finally make a move towards the door, conceding to the fact that it's going to take some time for him to warm up to me again, and then I pause for a moment.

"Um…Grace's award ceremony at school is tomorrow night, so…"

"I know," he interjects quietly as he finally brings his eyes back to mine. "I'll be there."

"Okay," I say with a small smile. "Well, I'll see you then."

The entire drive home, I sound psychotic.

_Multiple personalities,_ I clarify humorlessly.

Because I simultaneously obsess about mending fences with Peter, and telling him to go to hell for not forgiving me immediately.

I was grieving, damn it! I _said_ things.

_Things he didn't deserve,_ I argue. I keep telling him the past is the past, but apparently that's only true until I decide to wield it against him.

"What the hell do you want?" I finally ask myself, saying the words out loud in the empty car.

_Peter_, I think, but I don't say it.

Maybe because for the first time since the day I met him, I'm afraid. Afraid that the choice to be with him or _not _be with him isn't in my hands anymore.

I arrive home to an empty apartment, both Zach and Grace spending the night with friends. I'm grateful for the privacy, for the lack of looks or judgment while I methodically make my way through a bottle of wine. I think it'll help me sleep, but it doesn't.

Instead, I spend the night staring at the ceiling, rehashing the past five years.

The scandal.

The aftermath.

Will.

During that time, Peter and I had some nasty fights. There's been name-calling and insult-slinging and accusatory remarks.

I slept with him, and then I didn't. And then I did again. And now I'm not.

_God, what am I doing? _The never ending push and pull…taking advantage of his guilt and of his love for me, using him whenever I felt the urge, still _punishing_ him…

And yet until now, he's gone along with it. And even when we're on the outs, I've always been able to count on him. He's always just a phone call away.

See, that's the thing about Peter. No matter what's happening between us on a personal level, he's never run away from me. Never not taken my call.

The alarm clock tells me that I did actually fall asleep because it's 7:02 before I realize it's beeping, and it was set for 7:00.

But I'm not refreshed.

Well, I am but I'm not.

I'm ready for work. I'm ready to kick some ass and make up for lost time that was my own doing.

But my head is still a mess about Peter.

And it stays like that for more than a week.

I've seen him twice during that time.

Once at Grace's school.

"_I'm glad you could make it,_" I said formally as he approached through the auditorium.

"_I said I would,_" he replied, putting a hand on my elbow and leaning in to lightly kiss my cheek – a show for the other parents, I guess – and I ignored the altered rhythm of my heart at his nearness because it's silly and juvenile, and I'm neither of those things.

"_You're a busy man,_" I stated unnecessarily.

He flashed me an odd look and then we took our seats and the time for talking was over.

Afterwards, he leaned in close again, and whispered, "_Eli booked a last-minute luncheon with the DNC in regards to the State's Attorney election. I think it would be a good idea for you to come."_

"_When?"_

"_Tomorrow. If you can't…"_

"_No, I can,"_ I interrupted.

"_Good. I'll have Eli text you the details_."

So the second time I saw him was at the luncheon. It was stuffy, with too many suck-ups blathering on and on about nothing, but I'm not new to the game. I sat next to Peter and put a smile on my face and pretended to be interested in the whole affair.

After two interminable hours, it was finally over.

"_I really owe you for that one," _Peter said wryly as he loosened his tie.

"_It's fine,"_ I deflected.

He paused in his action, with the tie loose but the top button of his shirt still done, and he regarded me carefully.

"_How are you doing?_" he asked meaningfully after a moment. It's the same thing that countless people have asked me since Will's death, but it seems like he really wants to know the answer.

"_I'm fine. Good, really."_

"_Yeah?" _he asked, and I realize that he doesn't just mean about Will.

"_Mostly,"_ I amended, since that's more the truth. We looked at each other for a minute, and then I added, "_But I think we need to talk."_

His eyes clouded over and he dropped his gaze, reaching up to undo that button as he said, _"No, we're fine."_

"_No, we aren't," _I argued lightly. _"Peter, I owe you an apology. I told you I wouldn't keep using that against you, and then I did, and…"_

"_That. You mean the hookers?" _he questioned, the hurt masked by bitterness. "_Alicia, it's fine. You said it yourself. We're business partners. We co-parent. And maybe we can even be friends. But you sure as hell don't have to apologize for how I made you feel, okay? It's done."_

That's when Eli found us in the back hall outside of the conference room where the luncheon was held, and once again I was essentially dismissed.

So like I said, now it's been a little more than a week since that night in his office. A full week, actually, since the luncheon. We've spoken on the phone a few times, mostly in regards to Zach and the bong picture, but other than that, he's been a ghost.

"Are you okay?"

This time it's Owen asking the question. We're sitting on my couch, each drinking a glass of wine, and I can tell by the way he's not looking at me that he's got something on his mind.

"Am I okay?" I repeat, wondering if he knows I've been sitting here thinking about Peter.

"Will," he clarifies, and there it is again. That nauseating unease. I'm not sure how else to describe it – just a little flutter of dread that rolls through me. But I like that it's no longer debilitating.

"I am," I say firmly.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Me, too.

"He made me laugh."

"I don't want to cry anymore, Owen, so let's not…"

"Yeah," he agrees quickly, and then he says, "Wait, so you're Bill and Hillary?"

That's what Zach called me and Peter. Funny how perceptive kids can be. Although I guess he's not really a kid anymore, but still…

"Zach's being melodramatic," I say.

"What does that mean exactly, Bill and Hillary?"

"It means we're married. We stay married. That's it."

"He does what he wants, you do what you want?"

"Well, he does what he wants anyway."

There I go again, throwing that judgment out there. I haven't heard of a single woman he's been with in the past five years. No hint of one, no woman's intuition, nothing.

So doing what he wants means…

Well, I guess right now it means he's _not _with me.

Because he doesn't want me anymore.

That stings.

"Interesting," Owen remarks.

"I thought you'd be happy," I say.

"I'm happy if you're happy," he responds, and I can tell by the way he says it that he knows I'm not happy.

"It's a decision," I say firmly. "I like decisions."

But once I'm in bed again – alone – my mind goes back to that conversation.

It was a decision alright…just not mine.

So is that what's bugging me? That it's not my choice anymore? Or is it that I truly regret shoving Peter out of my life?

I lay still for several minutes trying to picture my day to day life with Peter still in it.

It's not hard.

We're good together.

He respects my work and he understand its demands. He's a wonderful father and doesn't mind interrupting his own responsibilities to help me with the kids when circumstances dictate. He listens when I need to talk. And yes, sometimes he's overprotective, but so am I, so I can't really fault him for that.

While I'm analyzing all of this, my mind keeps replaying one of Owen's remarks over and over until it's all I can think about.

"_Peter's getting laid. You should get laid, too."_

So is he? Why does that thought have my stomach in knots?

Without giving myself a chance to weigh the intelligence of making such a call, I grab my phone and push the speed-dial icon for Peter.

_It's late_, I notice once the phone is ringing. _What am I doing? _

"Alicia?" he answers, sounding sleepy, his voice deep and rumbling. "Are you okay?"

This is what I mean about Peter. I'm calling him at two in the morning and he doesn't mind at all.

"Yes, I'm fine," I say distractedly since Owen's words are still on loop in my brain, combined with my own directive to Peter of _sleep with whomever you want_. "I didn't mean it. I mean, I did, but I don't. I didn't think it through."

"Okay," he says carefully, and I can't be sure, but I think he wants to laugh at my uncharacteristic rambling. "Alicia, I have no idea what you're talking about."

I lean back against the pillows and sigh, knowing that I'm not making any sense, and I need to just come out with it. I wish I'd thought this whole thing through before I picked up the phone, but I didn't, so…

"Owen said I need to get laid. And he said that you already are. So...are you?"

"What?" he chokes out, and he sounds more awake now, but not angry. If this situation were reversed, I would've jumped all over him for asking the question, reading him the riot act about how my life is my life, et cetera, et cetera.

But he doesn't do that.

"Not right _now_," I clarify and in spite of the seriousness of my question, I have to chuckle because it's so ridiculous for me to be doing this. "I mean…"

And then I stop because I know it's none of my damn business. I told him to do his own thing. I insisted upon it. He could be in the middle of a threesome right now and I'd have no one to blame but myself.

"I'm not," he answers, catching me by surprise. The answer itself as much as the fact that he gave it, because like I said, it's really none of my business. I'm the one who set those guidelines. I'm the one who told him to sleep with whomever he wants. And even though I tried to take back the harshness of my edict, he remains committed to seeing it through. Because I've done this too many times, hurt him and isolated myself from him.

And yet he answered me – truthfully, I believe.

So here we are again.

It feels like we keep coming around to each other, no matter how many times things go off track.

_Because I love him_, my mind points out. Not that I don't know that. I do know that. It's just that for a while there it was so easy to blame him for every struggle in my life, and now it seems I keep blaming him, even though he's worked hard to turn his life around.

"Oh," I say, trying not to sound as happy as I am about his lack of sex life. "Why not?"

"I don't want to," he says easily. And then I hear him take in a breath, and for a moment, I'm worried about what he might say next.

"And for the record," he continues. "There hasn't been anyone. Not since…well, not since before I went to prison."

His words hang in the air for a moment as I think about them, and then he adds, "It's just been you, Alicia. I don't want anyone else."

I feel tears flood my eyes and I know I told Owen I don't want to cry anymore, but I guess I meant I don't want to cry about _Will_. Because I don't mind getting choked up at Peter's heartfelt statement, something I thought he might never say to me again. I feel almost overwhelmed with relief to know that he _does_ still want me.

And I feel guilty about putting us in this situation to begin with.

"I'm sorry about what I said," I tell him. "In the kitchen."

"No, I'm sorry. I pushed you. I provoked you," he replies.

"No, you were telling me what I needed to hear. I was…drowning."

"I didn't have to say what I did."

"Neither did I."

"Are we arguing about who should be apologizing?" he asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. I laugh quietly, and so does he.

"So we're both sorry," I state.

"Agreed," he says quickly.

I'm not sure what comes next, and for a minute, neither of us says anything.

"Zach says we're Bill and Hillary," I say at last.

"Clinton?" he asks in surprise. "What does that…oh. I get it."

"Yeah."

Another moment passes in silence and it hits me that I don't want to be doing this on the phone.

"Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to be Bill and Hillary. I know it was my idea, but I was wrong."

"Wrong," he repeats, and I think he's trying to make a joke of it, but it's not and he knows it, so then he says, "Who do you want to be?"

"Peter and Alicia," I reply simply, and then I put my previous thought into words, even though it's not usually my style, because I realize that this is a pivotal moment for us, so I can't hold back. "We shouldn't be having pre-dawn conversations in hushed tones on cell phones. We should be doing it in person…here, in bed."

When he doesn't respond right away, I add, "Peter, I want us to be...well, _us_."

"I'm not sure I know what that is anymore."

I love his honesty, even though it's not the response I wanted to hear. I wanted him to say, _I can be there in thirty minutes_.

"You don't?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper as I once again feel the sting of fresh tears.

"I thought I did, until recently, but now I'm not so sure. Are you?"

He doesn't say it, but I know what he means. The back and forth has to stop.

"I'm sure, Peter," I say, and I am. Maybe it was the very real possibility that things might be permanently over between us that made me realize how much I _don't _want it to be true, I don't know.

But I'm sure.

"Okay, so…what now?"

"Now you come home."

"You mean _right_ now?" he asks and I can hear the smile in his voice.

I can also hear the sound of him getting out of bed, and that makes _me_ smile.

"Right now."

The End (maybe)

A/N : Many, many thanks to Jodes for her excellent suggestions


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